


Just Friends

by ficbear



Series: Gunsel [26]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Dom/sub, Face Slapping, Foursome - M/M/M/M, M/M, Oral Sex, Organized Crime, Polyamory, Rentboys, Rough Sex, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 18:09:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3497900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficbear/pseuds/ficbear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His mouth is set in a solid frown, and his eyes are bright and fiery. I know that look. That's the expression that says: <em>I've caught someone trying to take us for a ride, and I'm just waiting for permission to give them what for.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The sound of Camille singing is just loud enough to reach me through the closed door. I can hear the throbbing of the bass, too, and the odd bit of tinkling from the piano. I always work best when he's singing. It's like having the radio on in the background, low and gentle, cushioning you from the sharpest edges of the task at hand. The noise of the club always comforts me. Any noise does, really. Sometimes even the sound of Tommy whistling does the trick. As long as I can hear that there's life going on out there, that there's people talking and laughing and having fun beyond that door, I can concentrate on the lifeless paperwork in front of me. Well, better than I would in silence, anyway.

When I was younger I used to dream of having a job like this. Running a boy bar, that's got to be like getting paid to spend all day at the pictures eating sweets, hasn't it? Sign a few cheques, make nice with a few clients, then kick back and blow off steam with whatever boy you fancy. Sounds like a dream, doesn't it? I jab my pen at the stack of papers on the desk, pushing them away a bit, like a sulky little kid kicking a broken toy. Invoices, remittances, and contracts. That's what I'm luxuriating in right now. If one of the boys walked in right now stark naked, I'd probably just pass him a few of these contracts and ask him to give me a hand with the proofreading.

I'm just getting started on the fourth of those new contracts, when there's a soft knock at the door, and then David's voice, lightly and crisply saying "Johnny, do you have a moment?"

"Course," I say, putting my pen down. "Come in."

"Sorry to disturb you," he says, closing the door behind him. "But there's a client asking for you, quite strenuously, and he won't be put off."

"Does he want to make a complaint?" I say, hoping the answer's yes, so I can leave it to Tommy.

"No, he says he wants to talk business."

Just another con-artist, then. Pity. Tommy's had no troublemakers to deal with all week, and he's due for a bit of exercise. "Alright," I say, trying not to sound too disappointed, "who is he?"

"Here." David passes me a business card.

I look at the name on the front, and swish it around in my head for a few seconds. Peter Hearn. Doesn't ring a bell. _Corporate conveyancing,_ it says underneath, _taxation and employment law_. That's a lot of big words, and I'm guessing each one of them's going to end up costing me a packet.

"Is he a regular?"

"Yes, he comes in once or twice a week."

"Ever given the boys any trouble?"

"No," David says, and he sounds a bit grudging about it. "He always behaves himself, and he always tips heavily."

"A model client, eh?"

"Yes, except for the fact that he's a lawyer, you couldn't ask for more."

I laugh, and shake my head. David and lawyers, it's like Joe and judges. There's a core of bitterness there that all the good behaviour in the world couldn't shift. "Alright," I say, tossing the business card down on top of the rest of the papers I haven't gotten around to dealing with. "Tell him I'm busy, but I'll see him tomorrow at seven."

"Okay, Johnny," he says, with a sharp little smile. "I'll tell him."

I watch David leave, and as soon as he's gone, I put my head in my hands and give the kind of big, melodramatic sigh that the boys would spend all night mocking me for if they heard it. I can't help it, though. I feel like I'm under siege. I swear I spend half my time these days watching guys walking through that door with their hats in their hands. Everyone wants something from me. Every five minutes, it's _Oh Johnny, could you sign these papers? Johnny, which supplier do you want us to go with? Johnny, the boys are squabbling, can you have a word?_ Johnny this, Johnny that. I'm getting sick of the sound of my own name. All this hassle, just for running a little host club. But then again, I can't feel too sorry for myself. Compared to the way I earned my money when I was Tommy's age, this is child's play.

 

* * *

 

"Evening, Mr Castro."

"Call me Johnny," I say, automatically, and as I look up, I take a quick inventory of him. Thin and sallow, medium height, early to mid-thirties, with neat dark hair and gold-framed glasses. A bit plain, but there's a glint in his eyes, and a shifty little smile on his lips, and somehow that adds up to a spark of interest. Either I fancy him, or I recognise him from somewhere, but at this point I'm not sure which one it is.

"Of course." Hearn's smile gets a bit warmer. "Do you mind if I sit down?"

"Go ahead." I wave my hand at the little chair next to the sofa. If he wants to come to me begging for work, he can sit in one of the junior seats like any other chiseller.

"Thank you," he says, and he sits down as casually and comfortably as if he hasn't even noticed the slight. "Well, I know you're a busy man, so I'll keep this brief."

"Go on," I say, settling in for a long lecture. I'm not wrong, either. Hearn launches into a speech about the club's interests— _my_ interests, he says—and how we're doing alright now, but we could be doing better. Not the sales, not the boys, not the shopfront stuff. It's the foundation underneath all that. According to Hearn, we could be saving money left right and centre, if we were smart about how the business is organised. According to him, there's a whole bunch of lucrative loopholes we could be slipping through, if we had someone to point them out. He's so animated as he tells me all this, so eager and insistent about it, that he seems almost desperate. It's like watching a hungry fox scrabbling around trying to dig his way into a chicken coop. Well, he's done his homework, I'll give him that. He's casually mentioning things about Cloud Nine that I thought only me and the boss had any idea about. If he knows his business half as well as he knows mine, then he's worth whatever price he's about to name.

"Alright," I say, after what feels like an hour of his spiel. "Put something in writing, and leave it with Tommy. I'll have a look and let you know what I think."

"Of course," he says, reaching into the little brown leather case by his feet. "This should cover the main points, but if there's anything that isn't clear, do get in touch." He hands a thin cardboard folder to Tommy, and then he turns back to me, with another one of those sly smiles. "I'll call into the club again in a couple of weeks, so we can talk it over—shall we say the 20th, at seven?"

Somehow I get the impression this guy never lets go, once he's got you between his teeth. "Fine," I say, waving him away. "The 20th it is, then."

"Thank you again for seeing me," Hearn says, glancing at me, then at Tommy, and then at David. I guess he's got a perfect grasp of the pecking order, too. "Enjoy your night."

Once the lawyer's out of earshot, Tommy passes the folder to me, and says "What d'you make of all that, then?"

"Snake oil," David chimes in, before I can answer. "Oh, it all sounds very practical on the face of it, but the only thing these people care about is their own profits, Johnny. You can't trust a word they say."

I want to say: _Yeah, and you do your job out of the goodness of your heart, do you?_ Because let's face it, there's not one guy in Cloud Nine that doesn't have profit in mind. I like my work, but you'd better believe I wouldn't do it for free. "Sure, he's in it for himself," I say, trying to keep my tone nice and diplomatic, "but if he can get our costs down, who cares if he's filling his pockets while he does it?"

David frowns a bit. "Well, it's the principle of the thing."

"Principles, eh?" I can't help smiling at that. "If you're after a workplace with principles, you're in the wrong job, sweetheart."

"I know," he laughs. "But you forget that I used to work in a bank, Johnny—as I see it, almost anything is a step up."

"And on that flattering note," I say, getting to my feet, "I'm going to call it a night."

"You want me to stick around here, or are we leaving David in charge?" Tommy says, with a little smirk. He knows I get nervous when both of us have the night off at the same time, and he also knows I hate going home without him, so to him it's the perfect opportunity to have a bit of fun needling me. "You'll be alright on your own," the kid says, grinning at David, "won't you?"

"Oh no, you're staying right here until closing time, mister," I say, prodding Tommy in the chest. "Me and this folder are going to have a nice quiet evening together, just the two of us. I don't want you hanging around distracting me."

"Alright, alright…" He stands up, and leans over to give me a quick kiss. That's a subtle bit of needling, too, because he knows damn well I'm going to be thinking about him all the way home, wishing I'd let him come back with me, wishing I was enjoying that smart mouth instead of boring myself to death with this paperwork.

"Behave yourselves, both of you." I try to keep my voice stern, but I can't help cracking a smile as I walk away.

The funny thing is, it's not Tommy I end up thinking about on the way home, after all. It's Miller. A year ago I would have taken this file straight over to Miller and asked what he made of it. He'd still give it a look, even now, if I asked him to. I could ring him from my place, and he'd go over it with me line by line. But I'd _know_. I'd know what he was thinking, and the minute he let slip even the smallest hint of disapproval, I'd flare up at him. So it's easier, these days, to keep the two things separate. There's Miller and his side of the business, and then there's Cloud Nine and all the things he wishes would just disappear, all the dodges and payoffs and shakedowns. To Miller, they're relics. The old-fashioned operator is going the way of the dinosaur, if you listen to him. Well, I'll listen to Miller, I'll listen to him forever and a day if he wants, but the bottom line is, he's wrong. He's _wrong_. Our way of doing things isn't going extinct. Anything but. It'll still be going strong when I'm thinking about retirement. He's got his ideas, and I've got mine, but I'm damned if I'm going to let that push us apart.


	2. Chapter 2

The way I see it, it's like a doctor doing his rounds. You've got to show your face, you can't stay cooped up in the office all night, even if you have got a stack of paperwork as thick as a phonebook to get through. The boys need to know I'm around and interested, and more to the point, I don't want the clients thinking this is an unchaperoned free-for-all. Which I guess is what we've got Tommy for, not to mention all the burly doormen on our payroll, but I can't help it if I want to stay involved, can I? The personal touch never did anyone any harm.

"Evening, Inspector," I say, giving Hudson a nod as I pass by. He just scowls at me, and the boy he's with gives me a taut little smile, as if to say: _Thanks, Johnny, now he's clapped eyes on you, he's going to lay into me twice as hard, isn't he?_ Which is true, but I'm not worried. Terry can take whatever Hudson feels like dishing out.

"Having a good time, gents?" I smile at the trio of rich kids sitting in the middle booth, who grin and nod and say hello to me like we're all buddies. Just look at them. Hardly older than the boys they're buying. What are they doing in here? Throwing their weight around, is what I'd put my money on. I've got Tommy keeping an eye on them from the side of the bar, and he'll be on them in a flash the minute they get out of hand, but they still make me nervous. I know, I know, you've got to cater to the high-end punters if you want the big profits, but deep down I wish we were still just a little dive where anyone with a few quid to spare could come in and have a good time. I mean, in my day—

"Johnny," a thin, light voice calls out, "Johnny, come over here, there's someone you really must meet."

I turn around, and a few tables away I can see Kitty, waving at me with one small, ring-festooned hand. He's got that bank manager who's soft on him sitting on one side, and someone I don't recognise sitting on the other.

"Hello, Mr Fielding," I say, to the bank manager, and then I give his older, better-dressed friend a nice big smile.

"Johnny, this is Mr Campbell," Kitty says, with so much syrup in his voice you could choke on it. "One of Mr Fielding's colleagues."

"No, no, not just a colleague," Fielding blurts out suddenly, "he's the regional manager for the north!" And he says it so frantically that you can see Campbell wincing slightly. If Fielding's trying to get into this guy's favour, I don't fancy his chances. Even I can see that this is the type of big-shot who likes to pretend he isn't a big-shot. He's the type you need to flatter the subtle way, by making out he's so human and relatable—why, you'd never even _guess_ he lives in a big swanky house and brings home more than all the other punters in this club put together.

"Wonderful place you've got here, Mr…" the old guy says, and as he talks, he slips an arm around Kitty, as natural as if the boy had been tailor-made for him.

"Castro, but call me Johnny," I say, giving him a big broad smile. "And thanks, I'm glad you like it."

"Reminds me of the kind of club I used to go when I was a young man," Campbell says, with a deep laugh. "You've captured that old-fashioned ambience very well."

_Old-fashioned_. It's not enough that I've got the boys telling me I'm old-fashioned, now I've got some guy who's old enough to be my dad saying it too? Well, whatever. At least it's a compliment. "Glad to hear it," I say, smiling again. "Well, enjoy your evening, gents. Nice to have met you, Mr Campbell." And then I make myself scarce, because the last thing a big client like that wants is the whole staff fawning over him.

I'm halfway to the door of my office, when another voice says "Johnny," quietly and gently.

"Yeah?" I turn around, and brace myself. David's always quiet and gentle when he's about to give me a speech about everything I'm doing wrong with the club.

"I know we've talked about it before," he says, putting his hand on my arm, "but really, just _look_ at him."

I follow David's eyes across the floor, to where Sam's sitting. The kid's at one of the centre tables, talking to his client, and every so often when there's a gap in the conversation, he glances across to Kitty's table and gives the boy a big proud smile.

"What about him?"

"I warned you this would happen, Johnny. You've let them get involved, and now Sam can't keep his mind on the job."

"So he's giving Kitty a smile, so what? No harm in that, as long as he's still chatting up his client, is there?"

"Oh, it's all smiles now," David laughs quietly, "but the bottom line is that half of Sam's attention is on Kitty, and how do you think that's going to play out, if their little romance comes to an end?"

"We're all professionals here," I say, shrugging. "I trust the boys not to let their personal lives interfere with the job."

"You're _too_ trusting, Johnny." He sighs, and shakes his head. "You'll regret being this lenient with them, mark my words. When I worked for Patrick—"

"I know," I laugh, but it's a struggle not to scoff and roll my eyes. "Patrick does things his way, and I do things mine. It's worked out pretty well for us so far, hasn't it?"

David doesn't answer at first. He just smiles, and shakes his head again. "It has, but that's no guarantee it always will. At least promise me you'll put a stop to this quickly, if things do start to deteriorate."

"Course I will." I put my hand on his shoulder, and give it a squeeze. "I might be a soft touch, David, but I'm not an idiot."

 

* * *

 

There's a knock at the door, and Tommy's voice says very gravely "Mr Hearn's here to see you, Johnny."

I put my pen down and call out "Send him in." A few seconds pass, and in those seconds I can picture the hard stare Tommy's giving this lawyer. He's got no problem at all with legal types, but when it comes to new faces sniffing around me, Tommy's like a little guard-dog. He's got to give them a stare and a growl before he feels safe and secure.

You know, it doesn't seem like two minutes since Hearn first came to see me, let alone two weeks. Since then we've had four new starters, three runaway debtors, two narrowly-avoided walkouts, and one rookie copper who thought he'd try to put his own personal squeeze on us. I don't think me and Tommy have had a full nights' sleep between us for a fortnight. And throughout all of that, I kept thinking about Hearn's proposal, and a little voice kept piping up in my head, saying: _He could make half of these problems go away, he could make it so they never even pinged your radar, he could take all this pressure off, and leave you to run the actual business._ That's a tempting thought. It's so tempting, I'm suspicious of it. Anyone who can make you want things that strongly, you've got to be wary of them. I don't know. Maybe I'm getting paranoid, maybe David's grumbling is starting to rub off on me. I don't know what to think, and the trouble is, I'm not going to get the time to mull it over properly any time soon, either.

"Hello, Johnny," Hearn says, as he comes in. He's dressed a bit flashier this time, and now I definitely know which way he's getting my attention. He's swapped the grey pinstripe for a sleek black suit and an orchid-coloured tie that looks like something I'd wear. Now he looks like he really belongs in Cloud Nine. If he was a bit better-looking, he could almost be one of the boys.

"Take a seat, Mr Hearn."

"Call me Pete, please," he says, as he sits down across from me, and he throws me a little smirk. "I try to only be Mr Hearn in court." That smirk gets sharper. "Or in bed."

"Alright then, Pete," I say, letting that one slide right by me. I pick up the folder with his proposal in it, and point at it with my pen. "I've read this, and I agree with it. You've set out exactly why we need a specialist looking after our interests."

"Excellent," he says, with a big sharkish smile.

"Don't get your hopes up," I laugh. "This proposal explains why we need a specialist, alright, but what it doesn't convince me of is why that specialist should be you."

"Well, I thought that would be obvious," he says, with a little shrug. "I know this area, I know your organisation, and I know the club. I've been helping businesses like yours for seven years, and I've had nothing but success. Just ask Mr Holt," he says, and when my eyebrows go up a bit, he laughs, and says "Or better still, ask Mr Turner."

I believe him, too. This guy seems too smart to drop the boss's name lightly, so maybe he really is as good as he says. A couple of phone-calls would confirm that one or way the other, and even if it's a no, you've got to give him points for boldness.

"Okay," I say, putting the folder to one side. "I'll think about it. When do you need an answer by?"

"Oh, there's no deadline," he says, as he gets up. "Whenever you're ready, I'll be around."

Once he's gone, I open the folder up and have another look at the proposal. The example figures in here are the sort of thing you find yourself eyeballing over and over, even if you're trying to put the idea aside. The amount of money we'll be saving, it's enough to give all the boys a hefty raise. More than enough. With what's left over, we could probably afford to tart the club up a bit, maybe put in a few private rooms so the boys don't always have to go off-site. I mean, ideally, we'd buy out the lot next-door, knock it all through, and turn the whole of that building into VIP rooms. Which would mean a lot of new security and admin on the books, and a few more headaches for me, but wouldn't it be worth it? Imagine ushering your new big-shot client in and giving him his pick of the boys, all arranged in their fancy little side-rooms, specially themed and dressed-up, fine-tuned to appeal to this punter or that. It'd be like a film set. We'd need someone to handle the clothes—the _costumes_ —someone for makeup and hair, we couldn't leave all that to the boys, not if we're going this big with it. We'd need—

"Hey, Johnny, did that guy get the job, then?"

I look up, and find Tommy leaning against the doorframe, with his hands in his pockets and a big stupid grin on his face.

"Yeah," I laugh. "I guess he did."


	3. Chapter 3

"Welcome aboard, Mr Hearn." There's a big, beaming grin on Sam's face, bright enough to dazzle every guy in the room, and then he runs his hand through his hair, and tones that grin down into a smile with plenty of spice in it. "Seems funny, talking to you like a colleague instead of a client. I'm not sure whether I ought to be chatting you up or gossiping with you."

"Oh, a bit of both, I should think." Hearn returns the smile, and keeps it in place as he glances at me. "Do you often recruit staff from your customer base, Johnny?"

"Not usually." I shrug. "Only the ones who really throw themselves at me."

"You know," Sam says, sticking to his tactics like glue, "now that you're a part of the team, if you ask nicely, you might get a staff discount…"

Hearn laughs. "Might?"

"Depends how good you are at buttering up the management."

"Well, that's something I've had plenty of practice at," he says, letting his eyes drift onto me again. "You don't get far in my line of work without having a knack for massaging important egos."

"Nor in mine," Sam laughs.

I watch them bantering, and as I look them over, I try to see them like a client would. All the little details that whet the punters' appetites, that's what I focus on. Sam's pale blue eyes, and the pinkish blush on his cheeks, which makes him look perpetually a bit excited, or embarrassed, or both. His blond hair, cut military-short at the sides but left long enough on the top that you can grip a good handful of it in your fist. His long legs and narrow waist, and the little bit of muscle on his torso, which, judging by his tan, you'd think he picked up doing wholesome outdoor pursuits, not being dragged down the gym with Tommy. And then there's Hearn. It's his eyes and smile, mainly—they aren't handsome, not by a long stretch, but it's the desire lighting them up that gets my interest. Those eyes are the eyes of a guy who'd do anything to get what he wants, anything at all. I wouldn't mind watching him get it, either.

"Well, I wouldn't hold your breath for a staff discount," I say, with a little shrug, "but if one of the boys feels like being charitable, I won't object to the odd freebie."

"You're in luck, then," Sam says, throwing Hearn another hundred-watt grin. "Charitable is my middle name."

I have to stifle a laugh. I guess the kid really is determined to get his hooks into Hearn, even if he has to lay the foundations with a bit of pro bono work. I can't blame him, though, because it's exactly what I'd do, if I was a young renter trying to secure my place. The difference between me and Sam is, I probably wouldn’t have the heart to eventually start turning the screw, once those foundations had been laid. That's why I never did much freelancing, when I was younger. I can't stay detached, not on my own, not without someone standing over me to keep me in line. Left to my own devices, it'd be a never-ending string of freebies, and I'd barely make enough to cover my travel costs, let alone pay my bills. If I'd tried to live off renting, I'd have starved to death inside of a year.

"Keen to give me a warm welcome, aren't you?" Hearn laughs, but there's hardly any mockery in his tone, and what's there is a clear invitation to carry on.

"What can I say?" Sam laughs too, and shrugs. "I'm a team-player, through and through."

"Take him back to your place, if you like." I phrase it casually, but it's as much an order as a suggestion. The question is, how will Hearn take it?

"Thanks, that'd be ideal." There's just a little bit of deference in his tone, and it might only be a scrap, but it goes through my veins like a shot of adrenaline. "We'll need a bit of space for what I've got in mind."

"Oh, I like the sound of that…" Sam sounds almost coquettish, like he's been picking up lines from Kitty. "Whatever _are_ you planning, Mr Hearn?"

"Something a little more social than usual." He smiles at Sam, and then at me. "How about a game of doubles?"

"Doubles? That's right up my street." I laugh. "Sam, go and tell Tommy to come over."

"Oh, no, I didn't mean Tommy," Hearn says, with just enough hesitation in his voice to make my ego swell. "I thought," he carries on, "we might take one of the other boys along instead."

"Alright," I say, nodding. Obviously I'm disappointed that Tommy's not his type—stupid as it is, deep down I expect _everyone_ to go for Tommy, which you'd think a guy in my job would know better than—but I'm not going to punish Hearn for having different tastes to mine. "Which one d'you fancy?"

"Someone new, someone I haven't tried before." He looks around the room briefly. "Perhaps that boy over there in the gold suit?"

I know before I've even turned around exactly who he's looking at.

"Oh, you want Kitty?" Sam says, coming over all excited. The eagerness shaves about five years off the sound of his voice. "You've got good taste, Mr Hearn."

In my head, I can hear David's advice: _Fine, let them have their little romance, but at least keep them apart professionally. How is Sam supposed to concentrate on his job if he's worrying about impressing his boyfriend?_ I know all the arguments, but I also know that some of the best jobs I've ever done were the ones where I had Tommy tagging along with me. To David, the kid's attention would have been a liability. To me, it was extra motivation to put my back into it. No-one wants to look shabby in front of their boy, do they? So the way I see it, putting Sam and Kitty together should make them both better than they could ever hope to be on their own.

"Agreed," I say, nodding. "Sam, go and see if Kitty's free."

"Alright," he says. "What if he's got someone scheduled, though? Shall him tell him to rearrange it?"

"No, don't be dense." I tut and shake my head. "The only time we reschedule is for VIPs, you know that."

"Yeah, but it's a special occasion, so I thought—"

"Go on," I say, waving him away, "less thinking, more walking."

"Have you had Kitty before?" Hearn says, once Sam's out of earshot.

"Yeah, a few times. If you like the glitzy type, he's the best on the books."

"Oh, I don't doubt it," he says, glancing over my shoulder towards where Kitty's sitting. "Do you try all the boys out personally?"

"I used to, yeah." My voice sounds weary as I say it, and when Hearn glances at me, I feel suddenly embarrassed. "There's too many of the little punks these days to give all of them the personal touch. That's the downside of expanding. Everything becomes that bit less personal, that bit more corporate."

"Well," Hearn says, flashing me a smile, "that's where I come in, Johnny."

I can't help laughing. "D'you mean taking the contracts off my hands, or helping out auditioning the boys?"

He laughs, and shakes his head. "Contracts only, I'm afraid. I've got no judgement when it comes to boys. If I auditioned them, we'd be out of business in a week."

_We'd be out of business_ , he says. _We_ , as in both of us. The way he says it, I feel as if he's tied himself to Cloud Nine, and if one of us goes down, we both go down. I feel as if someone's just grabbed my hand tightly, and it's as uncomfortable as it is reassuring. It unnerves me, because I can remember feeling this way before, a long time ago, a long way away from here.

"Johnny, Mr Hearn," a thin voice calls out, from behind me, "we're ready to go whenever you are."

"Come on," I say, beckoning Hearn as I stand up. "Since they're working for free, let's not keep them waiting."

 

* * *

 

They make such an odd couple, these two. Sam's so brisk and sunny, so vigorous and physical, and now that we've fed him up a bit, he's getting more muscular every day. When he stands next to Kitty, he looks like an advertisement for a healthy lifestyle. Compared to him, Kitty looks downright seedy. So much shorter, thinner, and paler, and with so much more experience engraved in that wry, mocking smile. Kitty looks like he was born in a nightclub and raised on cocktails. And you know, it's silly, but the fact that Hearn can appreciate both of them, that endears the guy to me more than anything else he's said or done so far.

"Very nice," Hearn says, running his palms down along Kitty's naked back. "I don't know why it's taken me so long to get around to you."

"Perhaps," the boy says, slipping his arms around Hearn's neck, "you were saving the best til last."

Kitty always looks beautiful, but tonight he's breath-taking. That gold suit is folded up neatly on the floor now, and so is the black silk shirt he had on underneath it. All he's wearing now is jewellery, perfume, and a haughty smile.

"He's the best, alright," Sam says, pulling away from me a little bit to glance at them over his shoulder. "Once you've had a taste of Kitty, no-one else'll do."

"If that were true," the lawyer laughs, "you'd be out of a job, wouldn't you?"

Sam laughs too, and shrugs. "Alright, maybe I'm a bit biased."

"You're head over heels," I say, grabbing a fistful of that blond hair, "and you need to keep your mind on the job, mister."

To his credit, he does. Sam bends his head again, and gets on with sucking my cock as eagerly as if it was just the two of us. You might even think he'd forgotten about Kitty, but there's a bit of extra energy in his performance, a bit of extra striving, and I'd put all of that down to the knowledge that his boyfriend's a couple of feet away, listening to every sound he makes, watching every movement of his hands and every stroke of his mouth. Like I said before, it's the best motivation you can get. Well, the second best. Having your old man watching is the first, but I guess the nearest Sam's got to the boss is yours truly, which when you think about it is a pretty sorry state of affairs.

A soft little moan cuts through my train of thought, and when I look up, Hearn's bending Kitty over the armchair and squeezing a handful of the boy's ass so tightly you can see that pale skin whitening under his fingertips.

"You're so cruel," Kitty says, and it takes all my effort to keep a straight face. I know he can take as hard a beating as any of the junior tough-guys on my payroll, and yet here he is, squirming and gasping under what's basically a gentle touch. He's wasted on this type of session, if I'm honest. Kitty's the kind of robust pretty boy that should be revelling in some vicious old sadist's attentions, not catering to Hearn's essentially straightforward tastes. Still, who am I to argue? What the client wants, the client gets. Within reason.

"Please, Mr Hearn…" the boy groans, as a couple of those thin, sallow fingers slide into him. "I haven't been fucked for days," he carries on, which is so blatant a lie it'd be laughable, if he wasn't such a flawless actor, "and I need it _so_ much…" Which is definitely true, and visible a mile off, before he even opens his mouth.

"I hope you like the wheedling type," I laugh, but it's all for show. Kitty knows what Hearn's into as well as Sam does, and even I've had the executive summary. I don't bother with the nitty-gritty if I'm not personally involved, but I get the high-level overview of all our main clients, so I can keep tabs on what's popular and what's not. In Hearn's case, I know he likes his boys enthusiastic and vocal, and he never gets sick of hearing them beg. That's probably why he's so hot on Sam. I've never heard a renter beg so convincingly. I don't think _I_ beg that convincingly, even when I'm on my own time.

"Please, please give it to me, I need it…" Kitty moans pitifully as Hearn starts to push his cock in, and to watch him wriggling and squirming around underneath the guy, you'd think he really hadn't been touched for a week. He even winces and trembles a bit as the last few inches sink into his ass, like maybe he's just about reached his limit, maybe he needs breaking in gently. He's beautiful, absolutely beautiful, and he's completely wasted here. That's what I keep coming back to, as I watch him. It breaks my heart to see a boy like him doing work any run-of-the-mill new starter could manage.

"D'you want to fuck me yet, Johnny?" Sam says, pulling back a little and giving me a slick, rosy-lipped smirk. "Not that I'm getting jealous or impatient or anything."

"Alright," I say, patting his cheek lightly. That's the nearest to a slap Hearn would be comfortable watching, and the nearest Sam's happy to take, and all in all I can't help feeling I've ended up with the wrong dance-partner tonight. "Go on, get the rest of those clothes off, and get on your back on the sofa, I want to see your face while I fuck you."

"Yes, sir," he laughs, and gives me a cheerful little salute which, if he was my usual type of boy, would've earned him a swift backhand. As it is, I just smile and shake my head, and watch him strip off. He's a good-looking boy, and any normal guy would be champing at the bit, but I guess I'm getting jaded. Sure, I get a kick out of the sight of him spread out on his back, the sight of those long tanned legs drawn up against his chest, the sight of those smooth golden thighs spread wide open, but it's like listening to muffled music drifting through from the next room. I can hear the beat, and I can catch a bit of the melody, but most of it's lost on me.

"Johnny…" he moans, hanging onto my neck as I start to fuck him. "Johnny, please, give it to me, I can take it…"

And I have to swallow a laugh, because he's a pitch-perfect mimic of a boy who really could.


	4. Chapter 4

There's one point I'll concede to David, when it comes to the issue of staff romances. Whenever one half of a couple is working, and the other half's got the night off, you'll generally find the unoccupied one spending all night hanging around the club, getting under your feet, mooning like a lovesick teenager.

"Did I tell you," Kitty says, with a completely self-absorbed little smile, "where he took me last weekend?"

"Yeah," I say, but it doesn't make any difference. You can't stop a river like this once it's burst its banks.

"We went ice-skating," he carries on, stirring his drink with the stick of the cocktail umbrella. "Can you imagine? I haven't done anything like that since I was a teenager. I must have fallen over at least a dozen times. I'm covered in bruises, but it was _so_ much fun. And they've got a café next to the rink, the most adorable little place. We must have spent an hour just sitting there, drinking hot chocolate and chatting and watching people skating."

"Makes a change to your usual Saturday night routine, eh?"

"Absolutely," Kitty says, with a little giggle. "That's what I find so baffling about all of this. Sam's so different to my usual type, I really don’t know what I'm doing. I'm completely out of my depth, Johnny."

"Oh, I reckon you're doing alright," I laugh. "The way I see it, you're happy, and he's happy, so why question it? You've got to seize hold of this stuff with both hands, Kitty. Don't waste any time scratching your head about it, just grab onto it and don't let go."

"Like you did with Tommy?" he says, smiling at me over the top of his glass.

"Exactly."

In the distance, I can see Hearn sitting in one of the booths with the most recent of our new starters. At first it bugged me that Hearn prefers the standard tables to being up here in the VIP area, but tonight I'm glad of it. We spent so much time together last week, going over the basics of the club's setup, that I feel like I need a month's holiday from him. It's an investment, I know. Spend a week up to your eyeballs in paperwork now, in exchange for getting a smoother-run and much more profitable business in the future. I know, but I still went home every night dead on my feet. I didn’t lay a hand on Tommy all that week, either. It was like I'd had all my vitality sapped in that office. I think if it'd carried on any longer, the kid would've had me round the doctors' to see if I was coming down with something.

"Oh, I almost forgot, did I show you this?" Kitty's voice drifts around me like a curl of smoke. "Johnny?"

"Yeah?"

"Did I show you this bracelet?" He's holding his wrist out to me, and circled around it there's a string of black pearls. Every third or fourth pair of pearls has a little red gemstone set in between them, and the whole thing glitters as Kitty moves his hand a bit further towards me. "Isn't it divine?"

"Beautiful," I say, nodding. "Another gift from Campbell, then?"

"Yes," he says, with a big, bright smile. "It's all going wonderfully, isn't it?"

And he's right, too. Campbell's following the usual pattern to a tee. A guy like him starts off giving the boys bracelets and necklaces, because they could be worn by anyone. You could have a whole batch of those in stock, ready to dole out to whichever renter happened to tickle your fancy that night. Once Campbell begins to get attached specifically to Kitty, he'll move on to rings and coats, because those need to be the right size for the particular boy you're seeing. You'll know it's _really_ a done deal when he starts getting Kitty measured-up for suits: nothing says investment like a guy introducing you to his tailor.

"Hey, Johnny, can you come down here a minute?" Tommy calls out, waving at me from the door of the office.

"What is it?"

"I need a word," he says, "in private."

His mouth is set in a solid frown, and his eyes are bright and fiery. I know that look. That's the expression that says: _I've caught someone trying to take us for a ride, and I'm just waiting for permission to give them what for_.

"Alright," I call out, and as I make my way down the office, I run through the likely suspects in my mind. Maybe one of the boys has had his hand in the till, in which case it's an easy thing to sort out. That's my favourite option, because I know exactly how to deal with that, on account of having let my own fingers stray into plenty of tills in my time. Can't be one of the punters causing trouble, because Tommy knows perfectly well how to handle that on his own. So maybe it's one of our creditors, trying to squeeze a bit more money out of us. That's my least favourite option. That, I've never been any good at dealing with.

"I've got the guy from Masons on the phone," Tommy says, very quietly. I can see the receiver on its side on the desk, and I keep my eyes on it as he talks, as if I'm expecting it to get up and start causing trouble on its own. "He wants to know why we've cut him off."

"Cut him off?" I whisper, trying not to get agitated. "We haven't cut him off."

"He says he got a letter this morning saying we're switching suppliers, with a cheque to say sorry." Tommy grimaces, and shakes his head. "Out of the blue, just like that. He ain't happy, Johnny."

"No, I'll bet he's not." But d'you know who's even less happy than a supplier who's suddenly been ditched? A chump who's found out there's someone going around severing contracts without his say-so. "Alright," I say, putting my hand on Tommy's shoulder, "I'll talk to him, and you go and tell Hearn I want to see him."

"He's with one of the boys, ain't he?"

"I don't care. Tell him to come straight down to the office, and don't take no for an answer."

"Sure thing, Johnny," the kid says, quietly, with a grim little smile.

Once he's closed the door behind him, I take a deep breath and pick up the receiver. "Now then, Mr Baxter, I hear there's been some kind of misunderstanding?"

"You bet there's been a misunderstanding!" The guy's voice batters against my ear and makes my head ache. "Ten years we've been working with Mr Turner's clubs, and now you're cutting us off, just like that?"

"We're not cutting you off, Mr Baxter," I say, raising my voice just a little bit, to try and coax him down. "There's been a mix-up, your contract is staying exactly the same as it always has been."

"A mix-up?" Baxter scoffs. "Some mix-up. It's a cheap ploy to get our prices down, isn't it? Well, I'm telling you right now, sunshine, you're wasting your time."

"No, it's nothing like that, Mr Baxter," I say, and as I talk, the office door opens, and Hearn comes in silently. I point at the chair opposite my desk, and as he sits down, I carry on. "We've got no intention of trying to haggle your prices down, you're already giving us a very reasonable deal."

"Damn right I am."

"That's right, and we wouldn't want to jeopardise that. It's just a clerical mix-up, Mr Baxter, nothing to worry about," I say, giving Hearn the hardest stare I can manage. "And I'll tell you what, to say sorry for the false alarm, how about you keep that severance cheque we sent you? Just to show there's no hard feelings."

"Alright," he says, a bit grudgingly, but a whole lot less angry for having a nice comfortable bonus in his hands. "Alright, I suppose mistakes do happen."

"That's right," I say, watching the expression on Hearn's face. It's completely calm and content. He looks as unabashed as a cat that's been caught with your pet canary. "Thank you for being so understanding, Mr Baxter."

"Hmph," the old guy says, and hangs up.

I put the receiver down, and turn to face Hearn properly. "That was Masons on the phone."

"Oh, yes," he says, smiling placidly. "I imagine they weren't very happy about us changing suppliers."

"No, Pete," I say, trying not to raise my voice. "And neither am I, on account of this is the first I've heard about it."

"Well," he says, "I didn't want to bother you with something so trivial."

"Trivial?"

"We're only switching so that we can take advantage of a few subsidies," he says, smiling a bit more, like he thinks it's a done deal. "There's not much between Masons and their replacement, frankly, except that the new supplier allows us to qualify for a really quite substantial grant, which—"

"That's as may be," I interrupt him, "but you can't make changes like this without asking me first, Pete. You'd have gotten us a big fat subsidy, sure, but you'd have cost us a whole lot of goodwill, which is half of what this business runs on."

He looks at me silently for a few seconds, and at first I think he's going to keep fighting me. I know his type, I know it down to the ground. That sharp brain's spotted a fix for something that isn’t really broken, and the fact that he can't put it into action, that's the kind of thing that'll drive him mad. Guys like him, they can't stand the thought that not everything's got to be optimised within an inch of its life. Well, he's going to have to stand it. If he wants to put efficiency at the top of the priority list, he can go and work for Miller.

But I guess he must be a bit more flexible than I'm giving him credit for, because after a minute or so of that silence, he nods and says "Alright, Johnny."

"Right, so no more changing suppliers without getting permission first, understand?"

"Yes, I understand."

"Good." I stand up, and he stands up too. "Alright, you can go."

He excuses himself and says goodbye to me as smoothly and calmly as if this was just a bit of chitchat. I watch him leaving, and as he closes the door behind him, I catch a quick glimpse of Tommy waiting outside, standing stony-faced next to the steps. The kid must be thinking exactly what I am: _Hearn got away with just a reprimand tonight, but there's always next time._

 

* * *

 

"Look at this," Kitty says, pushing the collar of his coat back a little bit, so we can all get a good look at the necklace. "Isn't it lovely?"

"It's beautiful," Sam says, grinning at him. "And I'll bet it cost a packet."

"You're not kidding." I lean across and peer at the diamonds, which are as delicate and glittering as the boy wearing them. "Campbell must have spent more on those jewels than he did on your fee for tonight."

"I know, isn't it marvellous?" Kitty giggles, and puts his coat back on properly. The fur of the collar just about covers the necklace, but you can still see a few flashes of light sparkling on the diamonds every time he moves. "That's the third gift this week, and each one's a little bit more extravagant than the last. If he carries on at this rate, the poor man will be bankrupt in a year…"

"Hah!" Tommy laughs. "He's really soft on you, ain't he?"

Sam slips his arm around Kitty's waist, and says "Aren't we all? No-one can resist him."

"Oh, you flatterer…" The boy laughs again, and reaches up to pull Sam into a kiss, which is as long and as hungry as if they hadn't laid a hand on each other for weeks.

Honestly, they've been together a couple of months now, but to look at them you'd think they only just met. It irritated me at first, that passion, because I couldn't get my head around exactly what the attraction was. These days, though, I'm as pleased as they are with the arrangement, for one simple reason: love-struck workers are happy workers, and the happier my boys are, the happier the punters are. That happiness trickles upwards and upwards, in profits reports and word-of-mouth recommendations, until eventually it reaches the boss, and when it gets to the top of that particular mountain, it rains down on me in the form of a few more words of approval and a few more firm hands on the shoulder—and _that_ is what makes all this worthwhile.

"Johnny," a rough voice says, from down at the foot of the steps. It's one of the guys from the band, Eddie, a big burly old-timer who plays lead trumpet.

"Evening, Eddie," I say, eyeing the bit of paper clutched in his hand. "It's your night off, isn't it?"

"Yeah, and it'll be the last of them for a long while," he says, waving the paper at me, "if this is anything to go by."

"If _what_ 's anything to go by? What've you got there?"

"What I've got," he says, coming up the steps, "is my new contract, Johnny. You know, one of the nice shiny new ones you've been sending out to me and rest of the boys, telling us how our terms are being 'modernised'."

I close my eyes, and rub my hand over my face. I think I know where this is going, and I don't like it. "I haven't heard anything about new contracts for the band," I say, holding my hand out. "Let me have a look at it, Eddie."

"You haven't heard?" He laughs, but it's a bitter, grating sound. "Go on then, feast your eyes on this."

I take the contract off him, and skim-read the new terms. It's worse than I thought. An hourly rate instead of a regular wage, no guaranteed hours, no bonuses for short-notice cover, and to top it all off, they're supposed to be available six nights out of seven, just in case. This isn't a contract, it's an insult.

"This," I say, folding the contract up and sticking it in my pocket, "needs throwing straight in the bin. Ignore it, Eddie. Your contracts are staying the same, and if they ever do change, I'll come and talk to the lot of you about it first, alright?"

"So what's this, then? A hoax?"

"If only," I laugh. "Forget it, Eddie. I'll make sure this doesn't happen again, don't you worry."

He goes back downstairs, grumbling a bit to himself, but the agitation in that muttering is like a tiny little echo of the big booming voice in my head, shouting: _Who the hell does this lawyer think he is?_

"Tommy," I say, very quietly, and very calmly. "Go and find Hearn, and bring him to the office. I don't care where he is, or what he's doing. Bring him in."

"Sure thing," the kid says, quietly and gravely, and he disappears off down the stairs and out of the staff entrance, like a dog that's caught the scent of a rabbit.

I go through to the office, and once I'm safely behind the closed door, sitting at my desk, I take the contract back out of my pocket and look at it. I can't remember the last time I was this angry. It's all I can do not to rip the thing to pieces. I don't revel in the nasty side of my business, I've got no stomach for beat-downs, but I'll tell you what—right now, I'm hoping Hearn gives Tommy a reason to rough him up. If he came through that door with a bloodied nose and a black eye, it wouldn't even begin to calm me down. Maybe I'm getting so jaded in my old age that I need to see broken bones before I'll buy that someone's _really_ sorry.

There's a sharp knock at the door, and Tommy's voice calls out roughly. "He's here, Johnny."

When I say "Send him in," my voice sounds harsh and cold, and nothing like mine. Maybe this is how you end up icy and hard like the boss. Maybe that's what you turn into after years of people letting you down and showing you up.

"Evening, Johnny," Hearn says, strolling casually into the office. He's not bruised or bloodied, and his suit isn't even creased. He must have decided it wasn't worth giving Tommy any trouble, which is probably as much of a disappointment to the kid as it is to me.

"Close the door and sit down."

"Alright." He does as he's told, and when he's sitting down, he looks up at me and smiles. "What's this about, Johnny?"

"What d'you think you're playing at, giving the band new contracts?"

"Oh, that." He smiles again, and shrugs. "Just updating their terms, Johnny, bringing it all in line with industry standards. They were on a very generous legacy arrangement, but these days we really can't maintain such a—"

"We can." I cut him off sharply. "And we will, until I say otherwise."

"But there's no need, Johnny," he says, pushing his glasses up, and he gives a little laugh. "If you change their terms, what are they going to do, go elsewhere? Mr Turner's clubs are their only option, you know that."

"Sure, but it doesn't justify screwing them over."

"It'll boost our profits. What other justification do you need?"

"Maybe you're not understanding me," I say, coming around to the front of the desk. "So let me make it simple for you, Pete. You can scam the punters, you can scam the tax-man, you can scam anyone you like outside of the club, but my staff are out of bounds." I stand over him, and put my hands on his shoulders, pressing down on him nice and firm. " _Out of bounds_ , d'you understand?"

He looks up at me, squirming a little bit under my hands, and that smile sours into a frown. "You don't want me to make any improvements at all to the staff contracts?"

"No." I take my hands away, and shake my head. "That's one area I'm very particular about, Pete. My guys get the best treatment I can afford to give them, and I mean from the senior staff right down to the pot-washers."

"Alright," he says, eventually. "Alright, I understand."

"You'd better." I pat him on the shoulder, and go over to open the door. "Because if I find you've meddled with their terms again, it'll be your own contract I'll be making some improvements to."


	5. Chapter 5

Early on, it used to annoy Tommy how keen his pick-ups were to get me involved. I remember him grumbling about it whenever he came home from meeting a new guy. _All you've gotta do is say the word 'boyfriend' and suddenly it's all, Ooh is he good-looking, is he up for a good time, can you give him a ring and see if he's free? And they ain't even met you, Johnny. You could look like the back end of a bus, for all they know, couldn't you?_ And I used to laugh at him, and ruffle his hair, and say: _Well, would you prefer it if they had a singles-only policy?_

These days he's gotten used to it, though, and most of the time he brushes it off like any other wide-of-the-mark compliment. The only time I hear about it is on nights like this one, when Tommy's picked up a guy he knows is my type, when he's in the mood to share.

"I'm telling you, Johnny, he's right up your street." The kid's voice is loud and gushing, the way it always is when he's just finished a workout. Right now he'll be standing in the phone-box outside the gym, full of adrenaline, still damp from the shower, red-cheeked and grinning, and already hard at the thought of what's in store for him if he can get me to agree. "I ain't kidding, he's the best-looking guy I've seen down the Spartan for weeks, and you know we get some grade-A lookers."

"Alright," I say, trying not to laugh. No-one does a hard-sell like Tommy when he's angling for a threesome. "Are you bringing him back here, or d'you want me to come to you?"

"Can I bring him home?" he says, like a schoolboy asking to bring someone round for tea. "Honestly, I'm knackered, Johnny, I could do with going straight to bed after this, so—"

"Fine, bring him home," I chuckle. He's not tired at all, it's barely nine o'clock. No, he wants to bring this guy back for the same reason he always does: showing off the apartment, the fact that he's got a nice little domestic set-up that's about twenty times more comfortable than what he grew up in. I guess I'm part of that package, too.

"Thanks, Johnny," he says, loud and bright. "This is gonna be great!"

 

* * *

 

"Johnny, this is Cliff." The kid grins, as he shucks off his jacket. "I told you he was good-looking, didn't I?"

I look the guy over, from head to toe and back again. Tallish, mid to late-twenties, with cropped auburn hair and cheekbones you could cut ice on. He's got a fair bit of muscle, but not as much as Tommy. He looks like the kind of guy who goes down the gym for sex and sex alone, and I'll bet he gets plenty of it, too.

"You weren't kidding." I smile at Cliff as he gives me the once-over in return, and when he's finished, I gesture at the drinks cabinet. "Help yourself, if you're thirsty."

"I'm alright, thanks," he says, in a smooth, velvety voice, with a smile that just about masks the bluntness of what he's really saying: _Come on, come on, let's get on with it_.

"Fair enough." I put my own glass down, and come a bit closer. "What are you up for tonight, then?"

"I'm pretty open, I go both ways." He glances over his shoulder at Tommy for a moment, and when he looks back at me, he's giving me a cautious smile. "But I wouldn't mind a piece of your boy here."

I can see Tommy behind him, grinning at the compliment, and it takes me all of two seconds to decide whether I like the idea. "Well, I wouldn't mind a piece of you," I say, walking around him to have a look at the rear view. "So how d'you fancy a turn in-between the two of us?"

He looks at me over his shoulder, smiling at me as I let my eyes drift down over his back, down to those narrow hips and the curve of that solid little ass. "Sounds good to me."

"Alright, then." I turn to Tommy, and beckon him with a crooked finger. "What are we waiting for, then?"

The kid's all over Cliff as soon as I've given the order, kissing and groping the guy like he's trying to eat him alive. Sometimes Tommy can pace himself, but some nights he seems barely any more patient than the day I first met him. I reckon it's the guys down the gym that make him feel this way. The bigger ones, the older ones, even just the taller ones, I reckon they make him feel like the scrappy little runt he used to be, and he comes over all excitable and brash just from the nostalgia of it.

"Come on," he says, pulling Cliff's shirt off with one hand as he tries to tug his own undone. "Come _on_ , I've been waiting for this all night…"

"Don't be gentle with him," I say, moving around to get a better view of them. "He likes it as rough as he can get."

"I know," Cliff laughs, "on account of how his chat-up line was something like, _Man, I bet you could give me a real pummelling, couldn't you?_ "

I laugh, and shake my head. Tommy's absolutely shameless, whether he's sitting in a bar or bending over a rack of barbells. He gives a happy little grunt of pain as Cliff grabs a handful of his hair, and another louder one as the guy yanks his head back hard.

"You like it real rough, don't you?" Cliff says, with another velvety laugh.

"You've seen my bruises in the shower, ain't you?" Tommy says, smirking up at him. "How d'you think I got them, ballroom-dancing?"

"Give him a smack if he starts running his mouth, Cliff." I circle around them a bit more, so I can watch the guy's face as Tommy baits him. "It's the only thing a punk like him understands."

He doesn't wait for Tommy to run his mouth again, though. He just yanks the kid's head back again and belts him one right across the cheek, hard enough to make Tommy's skin flush bright pink. We've got him now. The minute you give Tommy a slap, you're done for, because you get drawn into a feedback loop that grips you like a vice. You hit him, and he revels in it so clearly and so shamelessly that you can't help giving him another, and another, and another, until his cheeks are burning and your hand's aching, and it's all you can do not to throw yourself on him and fuck him red-raw.

"Come on," Tommy groans, "Johnny hits harder than that without even trying…"

Cliff smacks him again, much harder this time, heavily enough to properly push Tommy's buttons. This time the kid staggers back a bit, and rubs his jaw with his hand, and says "That's more like it, I almost felt that one."

And the thing about that feedback loop is, it works on you even if you're not the one doing the slapping. "Come here, you," I say, grabbing him by the arm. He fights me just a little bit, pulling against me just enough to give me an excuse to smack him, and when I bring my palm down across his face, he looks like he's about to die of happiness.

"Johnny," he groans, as I shove him down onto his knees, "Johnny, you gotta fuck me, you or him, or both of you, I don't care, but I'm gonna go mad if someone doesn't fuck me soon."

"You know how it works, kid," I laugh, as I unbutton my fly. "You make me happy, and maybe I'll give you what you want. Except," I say, glancing at Cliff, "I guess tonight you'll have to work twice as hard."

Cliff comes a bit closer as Tommy starts to suck my cock, and having him watching seems to make every sweep of that tongue a little hotter, a little softer, a little wetter. What's better than having your boy on his knees with his mouth full of your cock? Having him there while another guy's watching, waiting, stroking himself lightly, desperate to have a turn himself. I've got my eyes on our audience as I fuck Tommy's mouth, and it's only when the kid starts to groan against me that I glance down at him again.

"Can't get enough, can you?" I pull back, and rub the shaft of my cock against his lips, smearing spit all over that sore pink skin. "Now, let's see you give our friend here the same treatment."

"Sure thing, Johnny," he says, grinning up at me, and then he shifts around to face Cliff, who looks about an inch away from begging for a taste of that mouth. He groans quietly as Tommy's lips slide down around his cock, half-closing his eyes and sighing like he's sinking into a hot bath. The look on his face is pure bliss. When I watch Tommy like this, I can barely keep a lid on the pride he stirs up in me. That's my boy, my perfect little punk. He's got the best mouth I've ever had, and I've had plenty.

"Fuck me," Tommy says, as soon as the guy lets him come up for air. "Come on, you gotta fuck me, what're you waiting for?"

Cliff glances at me, asking permission with those blunt blue eyes, and I nod. "Go on, give him what he wants."

I don't have to tell him twice, either. Cliff strips off like his clothes are on fire, and before I know it he's kneeling behind Tommy, lubing him up, rubbing the tip of his cock up and down along the cleft of the kid's ass. He doesn't talk as he does it, he doesn't even smile or laugh as Tommy pushes back against him, he's all business. He's so workmanlike about it, you'd almost think he was getting paid. He just eases his cock into Tommy slowly and silently, carefully pushing forward inch by inch, and by the time his hips are flush to the kid's ass, I'm as impatient as Tommy.

"Come on," he groans, twisting around to look at Cliff. "I ain't made of glass, come on and give it to me already."

Cliff laughs, and looks over his shoulder at me, with a smile and a raised eyebrow. "Took the words right out of my mouth," he says, as he starts to move. "Come on, then. You wanted a piece of me, so come and get it."

"Should've known you were the tough-guy type," I laugh, as I kneel down behind him. "Tommy never goes for the meek and mild ones."

He's hot and tight, but he takes my cock easily, no problem at all. _Goes both ways_ , he says. I wouldn't be surprised if it's ninety-percent a one-way-street, since he takes it so well, but if he wants to call himself fifty-fifty, I'm not complaining.

"Wow," Tommy says, breathless and loud, as he cranes around to grin at Cliff. "You love it, don't you? Not much better than getting it from both sides, is there?"

"Not much," Cliff says, and you can hear the strain in his voice as he ramps his pace up. He knows how to fuck a boy like Tommy, I'll give him that. No messing around, straight into the heavy stuff, quick and brutal so the little punk doesn't know what's hit him. He's as rough with Tommy as I am with him, and now the whole room's full of the sound of muscle hitting muscle, the smell of lube and sweat, and the heat all around us, sticky and humid and dense. Feels like a steam-room or a backroom in here. All we need are a few guys on hand with towels and it'd be perfect. We should put a mock-backroom in the club, I reckon. When we get the themed rooms set up eventually, I want one of them done up like a darkroom. Think about it, it'd be a real money-spinner. All the thrills of a blackout session, and none of the risk. Well, only the risk of getting fleeced, but they all roll the dice on _that_ every time they walk through the door.

"Johnny, can I come yet?" Tommy moans, and I can see his right arm working furiously. I can see that heart tattoo moving as the muscle beneath it flexes. "Johnny, please, come on, let me finish…"

"Not yet," I say, just for the satisfaction of yanking on his leash. Besides, I'm not done with Cliff here. I want to see that long, narrow back arching a bit more. I want to feel that smooth, sturdy ass tightening and relaxing around me a bit longer. I want to hear a few more of those quiet little hitched breaths. Maybe I'll string it out all night.

"Johnny…" the kid groans, digging his nails into the cushion in front of him, turning my name into a plea so desperate you'd think I was the one hammering into him. "Johnny, _please_ …."

"Alright," I say, finally. "Do it."

As he comes, Tommy yelps and shouts like he's being beaten, and it works as well on Cliff as it does on me. The minute the kid starts thrashing around underneath him, I can feel Cliff starting to tense. He doesn't make any noise, but I know a guy on the brink when I see one.

"You too," I say, giving Cliff a few harder, deeper thrusts. "Don't hold back, give it to him."

All I get by way of an answer is a muttered little curse, and that's it, he's tumbling over the edge and dragging me right along with him. He's silent as he comes, and the only sound is my own groans, set against a backdrop of Tommy's heavy breathing.

"Told you Johnny was the best, didn't I?" the kid says, grinning at Cliff as he slips out from underneath us. "Man, that was great!"

Cliff chuckles, and says "You're not wrong there," but that's the last bit of chatter we get out of him. He dries himself off and gets dressed in cheerful silence, and to be honest, I'm thankful for the peace and quiet. Tommy likes to chat to his pickups afterwards, but I guess I'm not the sociable type. When I'm done, I'm done, and nine times out of ten I just want the other guy to go home so I can relax properly. It's a relief when Cliff gives us a brief smile and says "See you around, then," and disappears out the door like he's on a deadline.

"Come on, you," I say, putting my arm around Tommy. "Let's get you cleaned up."

"Sure thing," he says, with a little yawn, but before we've made it out of the living room, he stops suddenly and wraps his arms around me, pulling me into a hug that feels like it's going to break a few ribs. "I love you, Johnny," he says, squeezing me tightly. "I love being your boy."

"I love you too, kid," I chuckle, and kiss the top of his head. "But what's brought all this on?"

"I was just thinking, I'm glad I ain't always the one who's gotta go home on the bus after a session, these days." He rests his head on my shoulder, and when he talks, the words are half-muffled against my shirt. "I'm glad I'm already home. _You're_ my home, Johnny."

"I know," I say, and I'm glad he can't see my face, because I'm grinning like the biggest fool you ever saw. "I know, and you're mine."


	6. Chapter 6

The only thing Miller would say on the phone was: _We need to talk, Johnny_. When I asked him what was the matter, he just gave me the time and the place he wanted to meet, and said he had to go. So I figure it's got to be something bad, but it can't be urgent, otherwise he'd have sent a car around for me straight away, not invited me out for drinks. It can't be anything to do with the boss, either, since he always gets this particular taut, hard tone to his voice when there's a problem with the old man. No, he sounded frosty and slightly weary, and that means he's gearing up to tell me off about something. It's just a matter of working out which of the available options is what's put Miller's nose out of joint this time.

"You know, I don't think I've ever met Mr Miller before," Hearn says, giving me a slight smile, "but I've certainly heard all about him. He was quite the prodigy when he was younger, wasn't he?"

I look out of the car window, and try not to sigh. "Yeah, I guess he was. To me he's not some whizz-kid, though. He's just Miller."

"Well, that should give us an advantage," he says, with a quiet chuckle. "If you aren't dazzled by his reputation, he'll have a much more difficult time attempting to—"

"Listen," I snap, cutting him off. "You're used to seeing everything as a fight, and everyone as your opponent, and that's fine, that's understandable, but there's one thing you need to be very clear on: Miller isn't my enemy, and that means he's not yours, either. You can disagree with him as much as like, but if I ever see you going against him, if I ever hear you insulting him, you're out the door. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly." Hearn smiles at me, and I get the impression that on some level he's enjoying this. What level that is, though, I've got no idea.

"But having said that," I carry on, meeting his smile with one of my own, "just because me and him are close, doesn't mean we're going to let him have his way all the time."

"Of course not," Hearn says, with a glint in his eye that almost looks like desire, and he doesn't say a word for the rest of the journey. I'm glad of the peace and quiet, to be honest. For a meeting like this, I need all the silence I can get beforehand, so I can focus on psyching myself up.

The bar Miller picked is one of those expensive new wine-bars, and back in the old days, I would've wondered if he chose it specifically to wind me up. Nothing sets me on edge and makes me feel like starting trouble like being dragged somewhere that's out of my league. I guess the difference is that these days, if you look at my bank balance, this place isn't out of my league at all. But my bank balance doesn't mean a thing, not really. I'll always be out of place in a joint like this. Most days, even Cloud Nine feels too good for me.

He's sitting at a table tucked away to the side, almost enclosed in a little alcove. It reminds me of the booths at the club. Private enough that no-one's going to overhear you, but public enough that everyone can have a good gawp at you from a distance. Present, but too remote to really get a handle on. To most people, that's probably a perfect description of Miller. To me, it's just the surface, just the flimflam he gives you before he's ready to let you in.

"Hello, Johnny," he says, giving me a very measured smile, which gets just a little bit harder when he spots Hearn standing behind me. "Well, this is a pleasant surprise," he carries on, stepping forward and putting his hand out. "We haven't met, Mr Hearn, but I've heard quite a bit about you."

"Likewise," Hearn says, shaking Miller's hand. "Thank you for inviting me."

Of course, Miller didn't invite him, he didn't even know Hearn was coming, and we all know that, but to his credit he barely reacts. He just smiles, and says "Not at all, happy to have you along."

We all sit down, and a waiter comes across right away, eager and fresh-faced, and much more pleasant to look at than the fixed smiles on the faces at either side of me. For a moment I get an urge to bolt, to follow the waiter back to the bar and chat him up, just to escape from all the tension and the political manoeuvring. Then the boy finishes taking our order and weaves his way back through the crowd, and I watch him walking off as if he was a ship sailing out of a harbour, carrying away my only chance of a peaceful night.

"Now," Miller says, with another solid-bronze smile, "shall we get straight down to business?"

"Sure," I say, and a second later, Hearn says "Yes, let's," with the perfect timing for a display of solidarity and deference. Hearn wasn't kidding when he said he knows how to play things around big-shots, even if the nearest he gets to a big-shot these days is me and the golden boy.

"I'm not sure if you're aware," Miller says, starting off with a calm, friendly tone, "but I've been spending quite a bit of time recently cultivating a good working relationship with one of our local councillors, Gordon Knight."

"Yeah," I say, nodding. Of course I'm aware, and he knows full well I am. "I was there when you met up with him and his assistant, remember?"

"Oh, I remember," Miller says, with a smile. "I thought perhaps you might have forgotten. You've had some involvement with Councillor Knight's office yourself recently, haven’t you?"

And now I know what this is about. Knight's assistant, a shifty little guy called Hogarth, is a good source of information, and his address book is worth its weight in gold, so me and Hearn have been buttering him up whenever we get the chance. "Yeah, I have, as it happens," I say, aiming for casual but ending up with something a bit too hard, a bit too rough. Just then, the waiter reappears with our drinks, and I use the time he's bought me to try to pull myself together, and push that defensive tone back down under the surface, where it belongs. "I've had the Councillor's assistant down Cloud Nine a few times now," I carry on, much more smoothly, once the waiter's gone. "I reckon he's going to be pretty useful."

"I'm sure you do," Miller says, glancing from my face to Hearn's and back again. "Now, perhaps I'm being unreasonable, but it seems to me that if you— _either_ of you—are going to pursue a connection that overlaps with work I'm already undertaking, it would be helpful if you were to share that information with me."

"It seems to me, Mr Miller," Hearn says, before I can answer, "that since your business dealings are quite wide in scope, what you're effectively asking Johnny to do is notify you every time he reaches out to a new contact. I think you'll agree that's quite a burden to place on our operations."

"I think you'll agree, Mr Hearn," Miller says, putting his glass down, "that if the organisation is to operate effectively, its component parts must work together smoothly. Cloud Nine is not its own fiefdom."

"Of course not," Hearn says, with a gentle laugh, "and that's why Johnny has always tried to include you in his plans. From my perspective, Mr Miller, it seems that the only person in this organisation who has any interest in treating Cloud Nine as a separate entity is you."

"Perhaps that's true." Miller moves his gaze back onto me, and all of a sudden I feel like I'm standing in front of an open freezer, getting a faceful of the coldest air you ever felt. "Cloud Nine is a vestigial part of the organisation, Johnny. I can't allow it to drag the rest of the business down."

"Now, hang on a minute," I say, putting my hand up in front of me like I'm stopping traffic. "I know you've got some funny ideas, but are you seriously telling me you think taking a Councillor's lackey to Cloud Nine is _dragging the organisation down_?"

"Yes," he says, almost sadly. "The sooner we leave all that behind, the better."

"Miller, we couldn't drag the organisation down any further if we tied a ten-tonne anchor round the middle of it." I can't help laughing as I talk, but it's the desperate laughter of a guy who can't believe what he's hearing. "You work for the boss, not the tax office. What d'you want, a squeaky-clean legit business?"

"Yes," he says again, nodding slowly. "Yes, I do."

"Then what are you doing working for the old man?"

"What I'm doing," he says, much quieter and harder, "is attempting to save this organisation from the same rot that's going to finish off all of our peers."

"Rot?" I laugh again. "As in corruption?"

"As in obsolescence, Johnny. The way Uncle Jack does things works perfectly for him, and it has done for decades, but that's not going to last." He holds my gaze with his, tightly and firmly, so I couldn't look away if I tried. "The world's changing around us, Johnny. We can't stay still. If we go on doing things as we always have, we're finished. The schemes that made perfect sense twenty years ago, they simply don't make sense anymore. The risks we took out of necessity, they aren't just unnecessary now, Johnny, they're downright _foolish_. The organisation would be so much more profitable, and so much more secure, if we could cut ourselves loose from all that."

"It'd be secure," I laugh, "but it sure as hell wouldn't be the same organisation."

"No, it wouldn't," he says, "and as I see it, that's a good thing."

I just look at him, silently, watching the expression on his face. It's bare, serious, and just a little bit soft. He isn't trying to bait me or shock me. He actually means it. He wants to take the organisation legit, fully legit, and everything I'm doing is a diversion from the route he's got planned. What does that mean for the club? For the organisation? For us, for me and him?

"This is going nowhere," I say, shaking my head. "We don't agree, and we probably never will, but the bottom line is, I'm free to run Cloud Nine however I want. You know that as well as I do, Miller. You can't dictate to me how to run my own club."

"I'm not trying to dictate anything," he says, looking at me with what seems like real sadness in his eyes. "I'm asking you to work with me, to cooperate."

"No." I finish my drink and stand up. "No deal."

At that, Hearn stands up too, and Miller follows suit a second later. "Alright, Johnny," he says, putting his hand on my shoulder. "I'm disappointed, but it's your call to make."

He starts to move his hand away, but I put my hand on top of his and squeeze it, just for a second, before I let it go. "You knew before I got here what the answer was going to be, didn't you?"

"Yes," he says, with a soft smile. "But I had to try."

Hearn's quiet as we make our way out of the bar, and he doesn't say a word until we're standing in front of the car that's waiting for us.

"You do realise, don’t you," he says, finally, "that Mr Miller's absolutely right?"

I look at him, trying to read the smile on his lips, and trying not to give anything away with my own. "Go on."

"The organisation would be safer, not to mention better off financially, if you left the legally risky areas of your business behind."

"Sure," I say, shrugging. "But where's the fun in that?"

Hearn stares at me silently for a moment. Then he shakes his head, and laughs, and says "My thoughts exactly."


	7. Chapter 7

The music's on, but we're still half an hour from opening time, so the club's empty enough that I can hear him clearly. It's a quiet kind of sobbing, sure, but I guess my senses must be fine-tuned to pick this stuff up. Maybe I've heard so many boys crying their eyes out in my time that now I can identify the sound in no time at all, like an expert classifying birdsong.

"What's the matter with Sam?" I ask Tommy quietly, as he passes me my drink. "Has he had some bad news from back home or something?"

"Bad news, yeah," the kid says, as quiet as he can manage. "But it ain't from back home."

"Oh, damn it," I mutter, and shake my head. "It's Kitty, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"Let me guess, he's quitting so he can go full-time with that bank guy, right?"

"Yeah." Tommy nods, and stands a bit closer. "He said he's gonna hand his notice in properly when he sees you tonight, but it looks like he gave Sam a heads-up first."

I nod, and take a sip of my drink, and then that crying gets a bit louder, and I find myself knocking the whole shot back in one. "Alright," I say, putting my glass down. "Best go and say hello, then."

David's sitting next to Sam, with one arm around him and a soft, placid look on his face, but he glances up as I approach them, and just for a second, just for the briefest moment, there's a little flash of anger in David's eyes. _You could have prevented this_ , those eyes are saying. Well, he's right. I could have. I guess it's only fair that I get my hands dirty cleaning up the mess.

"Now then, Sam," I say, sitting down next to him, "what's all this racket about?"

"I'm sorry," he says, looking from me to David and back again helplessly. "I didn't mean to cause a fuss, it's just—" Another big sob bursts out of him, and he shakes his head.

"I know, I've heard. I'm sorry, Sam." I put my hand on his knee, and give it a squeeze.

"Thanks," he says, very quietly.

"I know it's tough," I carry on, getting a bit more wind in my sails now, "but it's not like he's died or anything. Who knows, maybe you'll get to see him sometimes, you know, outside of work."

"I won't," Sam says, and he glances up at me with red, wet eyes. "This guy Campbell's the possessive type, and besides, Kitty says he'll be too busy to see any old friends—" The word seems to get stuck in his throat, and he looks down, and clenches his fists. "Friends," he says again, bitterly. "Is that all I was?"

There's so much I want to say to him. _Did you really think he'd stick around forever? Didn't you see this coming? Didn't he talk to you about his plans? Because he sure as hell talked my ear off about them, and I'm his manager, not his boyfriend_. Oh yeah, I've got all kinds of knife-edged questions I could ask him, if I felt like sending him completely off the rails. Instead I nod, and pat his knee, and say "Look, Sam, I can't expect you to work in a situation like this. Why don't you take a couple of weeks off?"

"On full pay," David adds quickly, shooting me another one of those looks.

"That's right, you'll get your normal pay, just like if you were ill. Go on, take a bit of time to rest, and then come back when you feel like you can manage."

"I can manage now," he says, with his bottom lip trembling and his hands still balled up into fists.

"Come on, now, there's no need for heroics," I laugh as gently as I can. "You're a good worker, but the place won't fall to ruin without you. Go home and get some rest, and I'll send Tommy round to check on you tomorrow."

"I'll take him home and stay with him for a while," David says, with a slight frown on his lips. "Just until he's settled in."

I wouldn't have said the situation was that desperate, but I guess David knows the boys better than I do, and he knows who's likely to do something silly and who's just going to spend the night emptying his drinks cabinet.

"Good idea." I smile at David, and then at Sam. "You take it easy, mister. Just take your time and look after yourself."

"Alright," he says, shakily. "Thanks, Johnny."

As I watch the two of them make their way slowly out of the staff entrance, I've got a whole chorus of _I-told-you-so's_ echoing around in my head. I mean, we've got Kitty leaving—effective immediately, I'm not having him working his notice and sending the club haywire with four weeks of juicy gossip—and now we've got Sam out of action for who knows how long, and in the short-term David's going to be busy looking after him, too. Three of my best workers out of the picture, just like that. Kitty should have taken the band and the bar staff with him too, since if he's going to cause havoc, why not go the whole hog?

But that's not fair. I knew he was angling to get out of here. I knew Campbell was a likely mark. I knew Sam was getting attached. There's no excuse at all. I did this, not Kitty. Sometimes I wonder why the boss ever decided to let me run this place. Maybe he just likes to see a chump splashing around out of his depth.

"Tommy," I say, as I pass by him, "when Kitty gets here, tell him to come straight to the office, will you?"

"Sure thing," he says, patting me on the shoulder, and he sounds as grave as if I was preparing to give the boy his marching orders.

In a way, I think it'd be easier if I was. If Kitty had done something wrong, if I was throwing him out for the good of the club, then I'd have a head full of indignation to keep me from thinking about the sadness at the bottom of all this. And I don't mean Sam, either. I mean me. Sure, I'm not in love with Kitty, and it isn't really specifically _him_ I'm going to miss, but it still feels like I'm losing something important. The club isn't going to be the same without him. I mean, Kitty's been here almost since day one. He was the first boy I was ever personally responsible for. The first boy I ever figured out how to keep in line. The first transplant from Mr Middleton's group, the first taste we had of that west-coast capital-G Glamour. He's been working under me for coming up on two years now, and in that time almost everything's changed. Seeing him go, it's like watching the curtain come down on the first act. Yeah, I'm looking forward to what's next, but when I think about everything that's been and gone, I can't help feeling mawkish. I can't help wishing things didn't change quite so fast.

When he knocks at the office door, it's like a clock chiming. _Time's up_ , that knock's saying.

"Come in," I call out, in as near to a normal tone as I can manage.

"Hello, Johnny." He stands in the doorway for a moment, giving me a mild, warm smile. "I imagine you've heard my news already, but I wanted to come and tell you in person."

"Yeah," I say, beckoning him. "Come in and sit down, Kitty."

He closes the door behind him, and sits down on the chair opposite my desk. "I'm sorry to be such a burden," he says, wincing a little bit, "but I wondered if you'd be willing to waive my notice period? It's just that Mr Campbell's going abroad for a few weeks, and he'd be very pleased if I could go with him. I did explain to him that it might not be possible, but—"

"Of course I'll waive it," I laugh. "As of right now, consider yourself officially off the books. I wouldn't make you work out your notice, not after how long you've waited for this."

"Thank you," he says, beaming at me. "Thank you so much, Johnny." I'd like to say for sure that it's genuine happiness on his face, genuine gratitude in his voice, but I don't know. I've been around him for years, and I still can't tell which bits of his act are real and which aren’t. I guess now I'll never find out.

"Listen, Kitty," I say, coming around to stand in front of the desk. "I know we haven't always seen eye-to-eye, but you're my best worker, and I'm sorry to see you go. If things don't work out with Campbell, there'll always be a place for you here if you want it. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes," he says, with a smile that's almost bashful. "Yes, I do, and there's nowhere else I'd rather work."

"Well, with any luck, you won't need to work _anywhere_ for the foreseeable future." I smile at him, and as he stands up, I get a sudden rush of sentiment, because the thought strikes me: I might never see him again. "And remember," I say, laying a smirk on top of the wistful smile that's trying to push its way out of me, "if Campbell ever gives you any trouble, you just let me know, and I'll send Tommy round to sort him out."

"Thank you, Johnny." He puts his hand on my arm and leans in close, and gives me the lightest little kiss on the cheek you could imagine, barely brushing his lips against my skin. "Thank you for everything."

"You're welcome," I say, quietly, and pat him on the shoulder. "Now get out of here, will you? You've got a sucker to fleece, and I've got a club to run."


End file.
